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The online diary of an ethical pervert.

Monday, 15 March 2010

Confidential moments

The fine mist of water hits me and I shiver as everything tenses. It's not freezing cold, but it's cold enough and makes my naked skin go taut, firming up with goosebumps. It makes me feel vulnerable, as well as damp - the strangeness and emotional isolation of being treated this way allows me to step outside of myself and become something else.

I feel calmly attended to, like a thing, a doll, a toy. Not necessarily his, or even just his-for-the-night, but a thing by itself, emptied out and waiting.
There is a burgeoning excitement at whatever is about to happen. I wonder if he feels the same. Captain's actions and mood are expressly not those of a lover - we still do not kiss, which adds to the sense of being held at arm's length, an abstracted cool quality without any of those powerful heart-swelling feelings that I had become used to with previous partners. What we have is something different, that I am still trying to understand. Passion is not a word that springs to mind when I think about it. Although I am driven towards and do want him, hard, but cannot take him. There's an invisible barrier that I'm scared of crossing, some unwritten rules that I'm dancing around, on eggshells. When I'm with him, in an otherwise "normal" situation, I am nervous of doing the wrong thing. I'm hesitant, tentative, always waiting for him to make the first move, lest I break the fragility of the threads around us. I don't know what I'm supposed to do because I don't know what we are. It's only when we start to play that I become more assured, the D/s comes to the fore and my behaviours are more certain. I let go. He catches me.

Like now. With scant words he helps me into the thick rubber sack. It's cold and I bristle slightly, but carry on. The texture is smooth like wet heavy silk, and it smells strongly of plastic which is now the scent of deep black spaces, of enclosure and sex. They are all the same thing. Once inside, I feel my breathing slow as I draw myself together, checking off the senses I no longer need, like turning off the lights in a house before leaving. I feel the pressure of a gasmask fitted around my face, each strap that is tied is another bulb going dim, another concern I no longer have. I love this held-in feeling, tied firm, yet free-floating. My link to the world is through the oxygen I'm inhaling only. Ropes wrap around me and once more I'm a package, amidst other packages.

This place is much clearer for me and easier to negotiate. Yet no less removed. If anything I'm further away from him. As I lie there, I have the feeling that he is caring for me in some abstract way (not necessarily pleasant, but always thorough) like grooming an animal, the bustle of a surgeon around the prone patient, the mechanic and the car engine.
We are disconnected, touching only where and when we physically meet and nothing in between. Each individual meeting point seems like a bright dot in nothingness. We come together, then part. I always feel a little lonely a couple of days later, but at the time I do not. This lack of feeling is perhaps a feeling in and of itself, which gives me space to be myself and nothing else. My submission is my own little empire in which I am sole inhabitant. Ruler and ruled. When in the moment, the parts of me that are worried, that have concerns, upsets and complex desires fade away, to be replaced by simpler things. I am my body and it's needs alone. Responding with mute delight to stimuli.

There are holes in the sack. My nipples are exposed and a small area around my clit. He plays with these isolated parts and I feel them like little sparks in the darkness, my cunt is wet and my body arches towards nothing. Then pain. Clamps on my nipples, hot, hard. That biting throb that is endless, surging waves. Never lessening. It's another chord to hold on to, as if I'm a far away outpost, connected to this world only by lines of pain and pleasure. I get wetter. Clenching my legs together around nothing, I become pure want. Wanton. I have no freedom to move towards my desire, only to stay put and wait. I growl. Half impatient, half revelling in the sensations. I desperately want to be fucked. He pushes his fingers in through the mask and I suck them eagerly, tasting his skin. There's gratitude in that action, my desire to please him, to thank him for what he's done to me. The fingers are replaced by his cock and I move towards him with urgency: life is simple, I am here to receive this. Nothing more. But it is everything, powerful. The crest of the wave. He comes in my mouth and I am contented. The orgasm I did not have for myself, but instead he did.

He unpacks me and puts a blanket over my prone form. I can't really feel my legs, they are heavy and not really part of me. He sits beside me and I put my head against his lap, kissing his legs and stomach lightly inbetween sleepy words that I no longer remember saying. There is tenderness here, a warmth and, yes, attachment. And although I know it will fade, for the time being it has not and I can wrap myself inside, like a dreamer not quite awake. Enjoying the moment.

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